


Electrifying

by SapphyreLily



Series: Human Circuitry [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9572720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: What would you give up to remember?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Halsey's [Colours](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGulAZnnTKA).

He cards his fingers through his hair, spinning round under neon lights, the music pulsing under his skin. He watches from the corner of his eye, the two figures playfully dancing at the edge of the floor, their silver hair reflecting the spotlights.

He turns away, letting the rhythm pull the pre-programmed dance from his limbs, losing himself in the sound and the feel of muscles on autopilot.

_Ping_.

He blinks at the voice message in his inbox and it plays in his head, loud and clear, despite the thrum around him.

_Go talk to them._

He rolls his eyes, selecting _Reply_ with another blink. He mouths the words he means to say, knowing that his Program will pick it up and put it in text.

**[Kenjirou]:** Nah. Not unless you come with.

The reply he receives is twenty seconds into the new dance, and as he spins, he sees the silver-haired couple again, so similar yet so different.

_Kenjirou._

He waits until the next beat before turning back, sticking his tongue out at his brother. The blond gives him an exasperated look, sliding off his stool, and he knows he has the rest of the song before he is caught.

He twirls into the medley of dancers, dancing with more passion, finishing with a flourish, and pulls his name from the dance program just as Kawanishi sweeps him up, over his shoulder.

He can’t help it – he giggles.

“Taichi, put me down.”

“No. We’re going to talk to them.”

“You’re a pain,” he complains, but hides his smile behind his default mask.

He knows Kawanishi only does this because he cares.

Because while they are both broken, he is more patched with code, and his decisions aren’t his most of the time.

\-----

They are not twins, but they are brothers, the same kind as the duo in front of them.

“I’m Semi. This is Yahaba.”

“Kawanishi. This is Shirabu.”

Shirabu looks bored and unimpressed, but his fingers twitch, and he knows that this boy is not all he seems. He had noticed him earlier, dancing too enthusiastically to the beat.

He wants to say something, but his brother beats him to it, sharp question falling from sweet lips.

“Which branch did your patching?”

Kawanishi’s eyes widen a little, but Shirabu just looks bored, his voice as toneless as his mask. “Shiratorizawa. Which branch did yours?”

It’s an invasion of privacy, and he wants to stop them, but Yahaba replies easily, uncaringly. “Aoba Jousai. Looks like our branch did it better.”

Too far, too far, they could be caught and Reprogrammed for spilling such information–

But the Shiratorizawa twins don’t look angry. They smirk and fold their arms, heads held high like a challenge.

“Maybe. But we are stronger.”

“You’re not that strong if you still act like NPCs.”

“Think what you will, but strength is always simple.” Shirabu turns to him, ignoring Yahaba’s spluttering, and takes his hand. He presses fingertips against his wrist, blinking quickly at something only he can see, and suddenly there is an information screen before him – the boy's name and number.

The brunet releases his hand and steps away, tapping his temple.

_Call me._

\-----

He expects the call, though he doesn’t, answering with a mix of anticipation and fear.

_“What do you do for work?”_

“No talk of work,” he murmurs, rolling onto his belly, toying with the prongs. “Come, join me and relax.”

A short pause, and a question.

_“Where?”_

\-----

Shirabu has a strange idea of what relaxation is.

More than strange, _dangerous._

“Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

The brunet looks up at him, tosses his hair out of his eyes. “It won’t kill. But it fries your circuits for a bit, you’re off the grid, and you can function humanly.”

He hates this idea, deeply disapproves, so he says no. Shirabu just shrugs, and sticks the prongs into the socket.

He thinks the boy is dead for a long moment, almost reaching out to shake his electrocuted body.

But then he groans, pushing himself upright shakily, and he slumps against the wall with a tiredness that is human – _too_ human. He looks up and sees him staring, lips dipping into a frown. “Stop judging me.”

He relaxes at his voice, though it is slightly shaky, and there is no undercurrent of The Program in it. “You’re not dead.”

“Of course I’m not dead,” Shirabu snaps, and his eyes widen, because _when did he learn to talk back?_

“You look constipated,” he tells him next, and like a too slow snail, he uses the wall to pull himself up, muscles unsure and unsteady.

“Why are you so weak?” He says it unconsciously, mind still ruminating on the earlier jab. He does not catch the glare directed at him.

“Because,” the brunet wheezes, “Electrocution makes me _human_ again. I don’t like the Program, though it helps me live. My body,” he gestures vaguely at himself, “Is broken. The Programmers fixed me, but they couldn’t Reprogram me.”

“Why not?” Wasn’t Shiratorizawa supposed to be the best?

“I’d die,” he says flatly. “Now come, dance with me.”

He hesitantly reaches out, wanting to steady him more than to dance, fearing his own electrocution, but Shirabu is warm, a human warmth, not as cool as all people should be, because his central cooling has been shut down, and now he is as human as he was born.

They step around the room shakily, and as many times the boy trips, he is there to haul him upright, until finally his human exhaustion sets in, and they collapse in bed, side by side.

They stare at each other for long moments, blinking slowly, regarding each other quietly. He wonders what he is doing, and as the thought forms, the brunet speaks.

“Is that your default, or do you normally look that scary?”

He can feel his muscles contorting, pulled out of his default, human emotion warring against perfect programming. He sees Shirabu smile, a smug grin that oozes superiority.

“What is your problem?” He demands, but the brunet only shrugs, a weak lifting of his shoulders.

“Don’t you like being yourself, instead of being led by the Programming?” He reaches out, pressing fingers to his face, and he loses all words. Shirabu traces the smooth skin almost fondly, digits wandering, exploring, before stopping behind his ear, pressing a little too hard.

Code flashes before his eyes, stark and unravelling, and he tries to protest, tries to pull away. “What are you–”

“Wake up, Eita.” The code is streaming across his vision now, faster and faster, bright warnings and alarmed messages. “Wake up, and come back to me.”

His vision goes black.

\-----

He walks hand in hand with him, pausing by the pier, watching the ripples of the water. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s not real.” Semi tucks his hair behind his ear, pressing just hard enough that his vision wavers, until he can see the black, bloated waters beneath. “But the sunset is, and we’ll miss it if we don’t hurry.”

He moves with him compliantly, until they reach a small rock outcropping, and as he seats himself on one of them, he slashes his wrist open on a sharp edge.

“Kenjirou, what did you do?!”

He blinks a few times, steadying himself against the world fading and coming back into view, grinning at the dying connections in his limbs. “Cut the connection. It’s fine, it’ll repair itself.”

Semi picks up his hand anyway, scrutinising the code frantically rearranging itself. When he finally looks up, his eyes are tired. “You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

He rolls his eyes, turns his gaze back to the poisoned sea and the dipping sun. “I wasn’t meant to live long anyway.”

The hands wrapped around his tightens, and he is pulled in, a kiss pressed to his crown.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to live.”

\-----

He is so tired sometimes, but the Programming holds him up, drags him along. He had given in, let it take over, let it move him to optimal performance, performing things he would usually never do.

But then colour burst back into his life, broke the hold over him, gave him a way to shut down connection for a while so that he could remember.

He had his code written and programmed by Aoba Jousai, because he was a faulty Shiratorizawa castaway. But he had had a life before he had been Programmed, and he still remembers, in his heart of hearts.

He looks at the one who woke him, at the human life dulling in his eyes, the ring around his pupils glowing softly as his system reboots. He reaches out and clasps his fingers, encasing their slim shapes in his palm, remembering what it was like to run and play against those steady hands.

Shirabu blinks, eyes shifting to their clasped hands, a slow grin creeping over his face.

_Click._

He saves the memory, pulls his hand back. Shirabu doesn’t seem to mind, rolling over and stretching. It is obvious that his mobility is restored with his system online, that he can function normally as before he was paralysed.

He holds out a hand, an invitation, but Shirabu is the one who pulls him up, spinning him around the room, caging him against the wall.

And though he is exhausted from moving on his own, without the use of his puppet strings, his eyes still work, and he admires the strange beauty of fragility before him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replies absently, hands coming up, brushing against fine cheekbones. “Would you go on an outing with me?”

The sunlight coming in through the tiny window is filtered and weak, but when it catches in his hair and sets copper aflame, all he can think about is how wonderful it would be to be burnt.

“Yes.”

And they go.

They go when both of them are under, when he takes a backseat in his own mind, lucidly dreaming, admiring the overflowing exuberance before him, privately laughing at how this _isn’t_ Shirabu.

He watches him dance, because he loves to dance, colour and light emitting from his skin, spinning round and round, filling the atmosphere with his life. He is contagious, and it makes others stop and stare, because he is giving off so much joy that others lust for it, and they reach forward to pull apart his wings.

But they don’t – can’t – see what he sees, that he is a patchwork, a work-in-progress, nearly complete but for imperfections at the very edge.

He knows what they see – that he is a loud inspiration, brilliant and dazzling, shining and blinding and drawing attention like moths to flame. He sees and he revels in the light reflected off him, but still he knows – this is not him.

Him is his quiet moments, when he contemplates something, when he gently pats bushes of dying plants and frowns at something, when he can almost see the boy underneath.

And he remembers that he fell because of his persistent pushing, endless arguing, discussions so heated that friends had to pull them apart, and how they were opposing personalities fighting for dominance.

He is too much, and not enough, and when They came, he lost himself, and lost him.

He is _everything_ , and They broke him, demanding more and more until he crumpled, body unable to function. They fixed him, but he would no longer be the same, a million pieces stitched back together, an odd stained glass window, refracting light in all directions and lost in his own mind.

He had forgotten too, until he was rudely awoken, coming face-to-face with the one whom he cared so much about before.

Shirabu keeps tearing himself apart, rewriting and overwriting the modifications used to keep him alive, but it is a bewitching sort of destruction, a bandage of code stripped away to reveal a hardening shell. He will not be contained, and it is curiously wonderful to watch.

He wonders sometimes, if he is awful for loving the way he finds and kills himself, if he is a bad counterpart for neither encouraging nor discouraging his destructive tendencies.

He wonders if he should ask him to stop, or to let him continue writing his matchstick existence, burning bright and fading away.

As he lays down at night, plugged into the port, he remembers and saves these memories. How for all his strength, he is still broken, and relies on bio-bots to repair him; how his skin glows blue from within, because he wanted to match with him but couldn’t get the aqua quite right; how when he is not solving problems, he takes paint to slather on canvas, calling his haphazardly thrown splatters ‘art’.

He thinks about these memories made new, something that he can store in a database, to recall his depthless affection for him. And sometimes, he falls apart as he scrolls through his album, because he is _breathtaking_ and _passionate_ and _determined_ , but he slips through his fingers, no longer how hard he holds on.

He is left in the aftermath, gathering crumbling petals of memories, turning to wisps in the sun, trying to press them into a figure that he knows. But he can’t replicate perfection, and all he is left with is the blue of his glow, seared into his mind.

\-----

He is grey, almost lifeless, the barely-there yellow glint in his hair the only reason that he can differentiate him from the rest.

He complains teasingly, but his partner regards him seriously, and promises to do something to make himself more recognisable.

His hair tips are dyed dark the next time they meet, and it gives him an edge, because he would know him anywhere now. And even when their eyes meet, he does not burst into flame, remaining with a surprisingly steady form.

But each morning that they wake together, he feels the stutter in his chest anew, like his heart is trying to tear itself free from the cage that holds it together, like it’s trying to break free from the only thing that makes sure he remains animate.

And when he opens his eyes – darkest cocoa, speckled with gold sun and ringed by shimmering aqua – even though they are bleary with sleep, even though he looks half-alive for the first five minutes, he feels like he’s looking into a better world, into a place of shining, breathtaking beauty.

He watches him like a film that he can’t look away from, like the indescribable allure of a sunset, and as he glows with his own brand of intoxication, he sears his retinas like he’s staring into the sun.

He is a terrible, ferocious type of exquisiteness, the sort that captivates even as it swallows him alive.

He is a drug, and he needs to get away.

But still they lie together, dance together, toy with the boundaries like it doesn’t hurt them, like it doesn’t have consequences.

He knows it, and he thinks he does too.

“We have to stop.”

It’s a whisper against skin, in the inky softness of the apartment, a suggestion made not out of viciousness, but for the need to cauterize and heal.

“What are you afraid of?”

His silence is the decent of a feather, drifting and floating, a whimsical dance.

“I cannot keep waking up like this.”

They are words with a double meaning – and he knows it, he does, he _does,_ but his mind chooses the meaning that it wants to hear, and his tongue spits the reply he doesn’t want it to.

“If you no longer want me, just say so.”

His partner is lost again, wandering the labyrinth of his fractured thoughts, and heat rises in him – a fury that he thought buried, an anger that wrenches his heart and lights his skin.

“If you were only using me – if _this_ meant nothing to you at all – why won’t you tell me?!”

His eyes flicker to him briefly, and he recognizes the fatigue in them, the frailness and delicacy – but all he sees is dismissal.

He gets up and leaves, a storm of broken circuits in his wake.

\-----

He is too weak to chase him, and begs his brother to do so.

But Kawanishi returns empty-handed, with nothing but an incensed recording to show he had went at all.

_“I want nothing to do with your brother. Come to me yourself, with your sanity intact, and we may talk.”_

The recording ends, and he droops dejectedly.

A hand is on his shoulder, but he cannot even shake it off.

“How bad is it?”

He does not have the energy to laugh aloud, and his mental voice rings with self-deprecation and a crushed spirit.

_One more electrocution, and I will be broken as before they fixed me._

The blond holds him close, but he is too exhausted, too worn out to even cry.

\-----

Everything reminds him of his fling, of the whirlwind romance that affected him so deeply. He recalls close to nothing about it, and he wonders why, when the ache in his chest is still palpable.

He flicks back through the memories of those days sometimes, but he sees nothing but pictures of a broken boy, with bags under his eyes and limp hair, his circuits shining so weakly it is as if he is already dead.

And he wonders – what did he see in him? What compelled him to stay for so long?

Was it pity?

\-----

He lifts himself every morning with a little more difficulty – and frowns. Why is he so weak?

He does not recall anything, and sometimes, he spots a physical photograph dancing in the wind of his room – and he wonders who the man in it is.

_He is so beautiful_.

Kawanishi will not tell him anything, but gently ushers him to the Programmers’ Clinic for his repairs.

\-----

Yahaba decides he is sick of his ‘moping’, and takes him to a club.

“They have a different kind of drug,” he tells him. “It is not a circuit drink, will not enhance your processing so that you can dance through the night.”

It annoys him. “Why then, would I want to take it?”

His brother pushes him ahead. “Because it makes you remember.”

\-----

He is almost irreparable, and they warn him.

“One more time. If you dare to fry your circuits on that drug one more time – we will use you for scraps.”

He is mildly terrified at the thought, but after some consideration, he finds he cannot care.

_All I want is to find_ him _._

(A muted thought rises, glitters in the muddied waters of his damaged mind.)

_(Who is_ he _?)_

\-----

He falls like a puppet with cut strings, convulsing and shuddering.

The dealer looks concerned, but Yahaba waves them off, dragging his brother to a private booth.

“You didn’t tell me you’ve had this drug before,” he hisses, but the older is blind, unseeing, curled into himself and crying.

_“Eita.”_

“Don’t call me that,” he chokes, and his eyes are dull, aqua rims gone dark, a glimmer of tears reflecting the pulsing lights. “Do you know where he is?”

“Who are you talking about? Eita, you’ve been taking a dangerous drug for so long, and _you never told me_ –”

“Kenjirou. Please, before I forget again. Where is he?”

\-----

He closes his eyes to the white ceiling, inhaling the dust and sterility of circuitry work.

Maybe he should go into this job when he is fixed.

“Do you want your memories wiped?”

He thinks about it. “Will everything be gone?”

There is a snort of laughter, and he thinks he smiles. _So the Programmers can laugh._

“I mean,” he amends, “Will I remember basic things? Like my brother?”

“Your human memories will be untouched,” the Programmer voices, though Their tone is disapproving. “We cannot remove biological memories. Only those made while you were on the Program.”

“…so I will have to relearn my brother, and this world.”

“You will be born anew, and fit with a perfect body.”

He thinks about it, and can find no reason to disagree.

“I want them wiped.”

\-----

They are barred from entering the Shiratorizawa clinic, despite his past record. He is close to begging, one step from falling to his knees – dignity and pride cast aside, because nothing matters more, _nothing_ matters more than getting in there and speaking to him a last time.

But Yahaba hauls him up and away, slaps him soundly on both cheeks and shakes him with a ferocity he has not seen in a long time.

“He is lost to you,” he says firmly, voice one pitch from a scream. “Don’t bother. There are so many more in the world, what is one fling?”

But he can’t hide it, not when his Program isn’t blocking his memories, isn’t filtering his thoughts.

“He isn’t a fling,” he whispers, shouts, screams. “He is more, so much more.”

“What is he then,” Yahana demands. “What is he, that you would be so glitched over this?”

He thinks about what he encompasses – burnished copper and startling sunsets, disdainful glances and gentle touches, hissed arguments and hushed debates, steel wrapped in fragility. He thinks about the flutter in his chest, the code that unravels and makes him feel weak, and he thinks. He thinks. And suddenly he _knows_ – he knows.

“He is the only thing that matters.”

\-----

He wakes, and wonders who he is.

A faceless mask stands above him, offers him a hand, and tells him to observe his reflection.

He sees a lithe frame, slim fingers, mousy brown hair cut in the weirdest slope ever conceived, but most of all, he sees nothing he recognises.

“Who am I?”

The faceless person hands him a name card – no, an identification card. He sees the face in the mirror on it, he sees the characters of a name that are both familiar and foreign.

“Your brother is waiting for you. Go out to him.”

He nods, still reading the characters of his name – his name? – and steps out of the room, steps sure and steady.

\-----

He is slumped against the wall, watching the entrance to the Clinic. Yahaba has abandoned him, calling him crazy and telling him to return when he comes back to his senses.

His vision is fading out, the Program slowly coming back online, and he huffs, a self-deprecating laugh that also holds anger resentment hopelessness–

He thinks he hears soft voices, but can’t be bothered to open his eyes. The hurt in his chest is fading, and he can’t remember why it was there in the first place.

“Hey.”

It’s a curious voice, almost familiar, but not really, and he cracks an eye open to see who it is.

A person is squatting in front of him, head cocked like a bird. He reaches out, touches the back of his hand lightly. “Hey.”

“What do you want?” His voice is cracked and croaky, and he is ashamed – he sounds like he has been crying, and he knows not why.

The boy in front of him raises his eyebrows. “I was going to ask if you had some place to go back to. Or did you want to go to the Clinic?”

He looks up at the Clinic, a little laugh escaping. “They wouldn’t allow me in.” He knows this, though how he knows is beyond him.

The boy frowns. “Do you have some place to go to, then? I’d offer you a place, but I don’t quite know where I live.”

That catches his attention. “That’s a dangerous thing to be telling a stranger.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I’m in danger of anything. I think I’ve just been Reset, I don’t even know who I am.”

That is very peculiar, and he cracks a smile. “Didn’t they give you an ID?”

“They did but,” he holds up the card, “I can’t quite remember how to read it either.”

He shakes his head, sitting up to read the card better. “Shirabu Kenjirou,” he reads, and his heart skips a beat. He rubs his chest uncertainly – why would it do that?

Shirabu looks at the card and shrugs, pocketing it. “Well, I guess I have a name now. It doesn’t seem quite right to me though.”

“No?” His gaze follows his hand, then flicks back up to his. “What would be right then?”

Shirabu shrugs. “There’s a name in my head, but I can’t seem to remember it – it’s like a dream.”

“Curious.”

“Indeed.”

“Shirabu, let’s go.” The tall boy behind him finally speaks up, extending a hand. “I’ll take you to your temporary apartment.”

“Okay. Coming.” He makes to stand, then stops, as if in thought. “Can he come with?”

The other boy looks surprised and a little wary. “Why?”

“No reason.” He shrugs. “So I can talk to someone, I guess?”

“Fine.” The other’s face is guarded, and he is confused.

“Shirabu-kun, I don’t think that’s necessary–”

“No, I insist.” Shirabu stands, grabbing his hand and pulling him up as well. “I’m curious, and I don’t think you’d hurt me.”

“You are oddly trusting, for a Reset.”

“Maybe,” he replies cryptically, but does not let go of his hand, instead lacing their fingers together.

“What are you doing?” It is comfortable – sort of familiar, he thinks, just like everything about this boy.

“Dunno. But I like it.”

“You’re acting more like a Glitch than a Reset.”

“Shush. I am Reset and I’ll do whatever I want.” He grins up at him, and he stunned by the ring of purple gleaming around his pupils.

_They should be blue._

He is confused by this conclusion, and wonders why he thinks this way.

Shirabu tugs him along, after the disappearing figure of the other boy. “We’re going to be friends, so give me your information, alright?”

He wordlessly transfers his data over, still confused over his thoughts, and does not respond until he is poked.

“Hey. Read your name for me.”

He is amused now, confusion boxed up for a later time. “Semi Eita. Do you need reading lessons?”

“ _May_ be.” He smiles again, and swings their hands between them. “Come with, and teach me.”

“You _are_ an odd one.”

“Speak for yourself, Semi-san.” The name makes his heart twitch again, and he rubs at his chest, distinctly uncomfortable with what he doesn’t know.

But the boy doesn’t notice, humming an off-key tune, and leans against him. “Do you think about the sky?”

“The sky?”

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

“I prefer sunsets,” he says, the words automatic, and he doesn’t know they are true until he scrutinizes them a bit longer.

Shirabu nods thoughtfully. “I think I might like sunsets too. Shall we go see one soon?”

This boy is way too familiar, much too abstract, odd and faded at the edges, but he’s also a Reset, and he has no experience with those, so maybe that’s why he feels this way. He sees no harm in it, with this boy who is a paper airplane, all clean folds and blank slate, who wants to fly but can’t go far.

He thinks about his brother, who has certainly abandoned him, and shrugs a little as he replies.

“Alright.”

(He has nowhere to go, and does not want to tend to the gaping maw in his memory.)

(So why not go with someone who needs to relearn his life?)


End file.
